"So... how do you have the Water Path? I thought you were a Wisdom Path wizard," Tom asked, glancing down the tunnel Yelena had disappeared through—only to frown as he realized she hadn't left a passage behind.
"Well... it's complicated," I replied, hoping to sidestep the subject. But judging by Tom's persistent gaze, he wasn't planning to let it slide.
"I don't see any enemies nearby," he said with a shrug, slinging his sniper over his shoulder. "So, we've got time."
I exhaled slowly. "The Wisdom Path doesn't possess a strength or weakness of its own. It's a path of comprehension. It molds itself to the essence of other Paths—Paths with less properties—and mimics them. But the trade-off is time. It takes a while to adapt, and even then, you can only channel one Path at a time. The first time you invoke a new one... your personality shifts, aligning with the traits of that Path's natural wielder."
Tom gave me a blank look.
"…I didn't understand a single word of that," he admitted. "But I'm gonna pretend I did. So—are you alright now?"
He tucked his sniper into the utility belt, the weapon vanishing with a faint shimmer of subspace magic.
"I still don't feel any anger. The effects haven't worn off yet," I said, my voice calmer than it should have been. "The Water Path has eight properties—only two fewer than Wisdom—so it takes longer to fade."
I shook my head slightly. "Anyway, I've wasted enough time here… That aside, can you teach me how you make those water strings?"
"Think of it like rubber and gum—mixed into liquid," Tom said casually, already walking toward the broken wall.
"Rubber and... gum? What?" I paused, frowning as I tried to piece together what that was supposed to mean.
I believe he meant adhesion. Moriarty offered with a hint of amusement. Cling, connect, and bind.
"…Why couldn't he just say that?" I muttered, then followed after Tom.
While I did want to chase after Yelena—mostly because of that peculiar lizard of hers—I knew better. She had more escape methods than I could count, each more absurdly effective than the last. Chasing her now would be a waste of time. Still, once we get into the academy, I am going to steal that lizard. One way or another.
"So this is how you did it." I held out my hands, watching as a delicate spiderweb of water strings stretched between my fingers, glistening with surface tension. "But I was thinking—why not use high-pressure water to turn this into a weapon?"
"Like this?" Tom asked, raising his left hand. A thin jet of water snapped forth from his index finger, impossibly sharp and fast.
With a whip-like crack, the stream sliced into the wooden wall beside him. For a moment, nothing happened—then the cut spread like a wound. The fibers of the timber split apart with a groaning creak, followed by a violent crack as the entire wall gave way. Dust and splinters exploded outward as the wooden frame collapsed in on itself, chunks tumbling to the floor in a heap. What remained was a jagged hole where the wall had once stood, the edges slick with residual water.
"…It was simpler than I thought. This is why I hate books—they make everything way more complicated than it needs to be," Tom muttered, half amused, half irritated, as he admired the wall he had just sliced clean through.
"Dude," I said, shaking my head with a chuckle. "Next time, just bring the book to me. I'll explain it for you."
The truth was, Tom was more of a genius than he gave himself credit for. His instincts were sharp, his control over the Water Path impressive—even elegant, at times. But before coming to the academy, all his learning came from textbooks, not from watching anyone use the techniques in practice. And considering how rare the Water Path was, the only person he could have learned from was his father.
Unlike dad—who taught me everything he could with pride and patience—Tom's father had always been distant. Cold. He walked the same Path as his son, but he never walked with him. And that distance left Tom to figure out most of it on his own.
"To each their own paths…" Tom murmured, the words tasting old and bitter on his tongue. Then, with a faint smirk tugging at his lips, he added, "Yeah. About time I forgot that stupid motto too."
He exhaled through his nose, the memory of his father's voice flickering through his mind—sharp, cold, unyielding. But he didn't let it linger.
"So," he said, changing the subject. "Where do you want to go next?"
"I was thinking of visiting Roger," I replied. "Now that I've got fewer points, it'll probably be a while before I get pulled out of this place anyway."
"Silverheart?" Tom asked, raising an eyebrow. "Doesn't he have a whole army by now?"
"I had a plan," I said with a slight shrug. "But knowing him, he's probably already convinced half the other contenders to give him their points. Trying to escape early, I bet."
"Then what are you going after?" Tom asked, curiosity flashing in his eyes.
"Morale," I said flatly. "If we let them leave here all banded together like that, Roger will have a real army once we reach the academy. The only way to stop that is to break them up—right now, while we still can."
I raised my left hand across my chest, palm hovering just above my right shoulder. Wally skittered down my arm with smooth, practiced movements, settling into my open palm. I brought him in front of me, meeting his ever-blinking mechanical eyes.
"Show me Roger's current location—if he's still in the Zone—and if not, then his last known whereabouts. I also want the locations of the squads he's sent out," I commanded.
"As you wish, sire," Wally chirped, his tone as formal as ever.
A soft hum escaped him as a holographic map projected above his head. The image hovered in the air, rotating slowly. Red and yellow markers dotted the map.
The red marker pulsed gently where we stood—our current position. Scattered across the rest of the Zone, glowing in clusters of ten, were the yellow markers: likely the squads Roger had dispatched.
There were thirty-one squads in total, spread out across the terrain in calculated patterns. But what drew my attention most was the large concentration at the center of the map—a fortified orc outpost, crawling with cadets.
"At last report," Wally added, "Roger Silverheart was sighted within the orc outpost."
"How the hell does this spider even have all this information?" Tom asked, eyeing Wally with a mix of curiosity and suspicion as he gently tapped the metallic dome of the little spider's head.
"He has his ways," I replied with a quiet chuckle, intentionally vague.
Tom frowned. "Of course he does."
He stepped back, arms loosely crossed, the glint in his eye sharpening into something more focused.
"Well then," I said, smiling brightly, the spark of anticipation rising in my chest. "Tell everyone to get ready. It's time we put an end to this… isn't it?"